


far from home with these aching bones

by fragileanimals



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 20:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11238837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragileanimals/pseuds/fragileanimals
Summary: Jyn wakes to a painfully stiff body and cold metal flooring against her cheek.(Or,Rogue OneAU where Jyn and Cassian escape Scarif in a life pod.)





	far from home with these aching bones

**Author's Note:**

> ok so i read an article a while ago about how in the original version of the script, jyn and cassian survived by escaping scarif in some sort of escape pod. for those of you who have seen _agents of shield,_ you’ll understand why the wheels in my brain started turning. anyway, if you watch that show, you might recognize the general plotline of this story. my aim was not to copy or piggyback off others’ work, but to write an au that does justice not only to jyn/cass but also to the amazing aos episode, which is incredible in every way and which i love with my whole heart.
> 
> hope u enjoy!!

Jyn wakes to a painfully stiff body and cold metal flooring against her cheek.

For several long moments, she has no memory of the events leading up to her current position, and half-expects to raise her head to see the inside of her cell on Wobani. Her temple throbs as she struggles to take in her surroundings, to remember whether or not her roommate had attempted to fulfill her promise to murder her as she slept.

But when her vision clears, she is not in an Imperial cell. 

Instead, she sees four metal walls, all close enough to touch, and no windows but for a small, round view-hole opposite her. Beyond the glass, a dazzling cluster of stars flicker and wink at her. 

She manages to get to her knees, crawling to the window for a better view. In the very corner of her vision a bright blue-and-green planet blooms, pocked with small fires and what looks like a single smoking crater--

_Scarif._

She jerks back, shoulders hitting the wall as the memories return, filling her mind with explosions, palm trees in the wind, a bright burning sun. Cassian’s arms around her--

_Cassian._

She whips her head around, searching, so fast that her neck spasms. But she hardly feels it, her heart stuttering in the moment just before her eyes land on him, saying, _you’re alone._

But her fears are unmerited. He's there, Cassian’s there, too, sprawled out just as she had been and within reach.

His eyes are closed, and, Jyn, fearing the worst, scrambles to his side, her hand flying to his pulse. She is sure she does not breathe until she feels his blood thump beneath her fingers, until she sees his chest’s shallow rise and fall against a backdrop of stars. 

Then, she allows herself a moment of trembling relief, her shoulders slumping. _Unconscious,_ she thinks. _Not dead._

He looks bad. There is no denying that. His normally dusky skin is pale, making the bloody scrapes along his cheeks stand out. His breathing is shallow, and his leg is bent beneath him at an unnatural angle, almost certainly broken. But he’s alive, thank the Force. And she is not alone.

Her hand drifts from his throat to his collar, straightening it with shaking fingers. It’s a small movement, useless, but it comforts her.

Reluctantly, she forces her eyes back to her surroundings. The room, if it can be called that, is perhaps eight standard feet by eight in dimension, with an even lower ceiling. Were she to stand, Jyn suspects it would only graze her head, but would force Cassian to duck if he were able to stand. 

As she watches, battle debris, dust and bits of ships, scraps of soldiers all float past her the round window. Or perhaps it is they who float, drifting on one last bit of momentum. She’s no pilot, but even she knows they have been ejected from whatever larger ship they had once been a part of; she can feel the untetheredness of it.

Something she has not yet seen is any hint of active starships. The space around them is deserted, a ghost town. Even Scarif is quiet, at least from the atmosphere. She takes this to mean that any remained Imperials have been evacuated.

This largely decreases the likelihood of capture, for which she is grateful. But it also means, in terms of the Rebel Alliance: They are unattached, abandoned. 

Alone.

+

When Cassian finally stirs, he doesn’t say anything for a long time. He just looks at her, eyes half-open and fixed on her face, and she looks back as long as she can stand it. 

Finally, he asks, in a voice that rasps, “Are we dead?”

This makes her lips twitch. “If we are,” she says, “I’m disappointed.”

She doesn’t realize the words are true until they come out of her mouth, but they are. She had hoped, once, perhaps naively, that there would be at least some small comfort in death. Some kind of nothingness, of peace. Hasn’t she earned even that?

“Disappointed in death?” he asks, mouth quirking. It is clear by the way his brows draw together that even this small movement pains him. “Is that possible?”

“I’ve found it’s possible to be disappointed in anything,” Jyn says, dryly, “if you try hard enough.”

Cassian snorts. “That's fair.” 

He attempts to sit up, but Jyn, seeing his expression, places a hand on his chest. 

“Take it easy,” she says, her other hand going to his back, to keep him from disturbing his wounds more than necessary. “There's nowhere to go.” She nods at the scorch marks on the round window, and he follows her gaze.

He sighs, allowing her to lower him back down. “If we’re not dead,” he says, “then, where are we?”

“Escape pod of some sort, I suppose,” she says, resting her chin on her knees. “We’re detached.”

“We took heavy fire, then,” he says, more to himself than to her.

“Suppose they thought letting us go would give us a fighting chance,” she says, and it’s only slightly bitter. The thought of it makes her want to laugh. Never in her life, it seems, has she been given a fighting chance.

“Hyperdrive?” he asks, then, almost as an afterthought.

A humorless smile tugs at her lips. “Nope,” she says.

He stares at the ceiling, expression blank. His hands are folded across his chest, as if in meditation. “Huh.”

She waits for him to elaborate, to begin to plan, but he doesn’t. He closes his eyes again, but it’s not the same as before, it’s not right. They’re shut a fraction too tightly; instead of giving the appearance of rest, he simply looks weary.

In the elevator of the citadel, on the beaches of Scarif, Cassian had been as unburdened as she’d ever seen him. Though he had been gravely wounded, he had gone to his death without regret or complications. He had not, for once, been thinking about his next mission, or the one after that-- he had existed fully in the unnatural sunrise, secure in the knowledge that his pain would be finished soon. She had seen it in him-- he had been content.

But now the weariness has returned. The pair of them have cheated death, making him, once again, a man carrying the literal weight of worlds.

She wishes she had the words to tell him that it doesn’t have to be this way. To remind him that he -- and everyone else who had fought, especially the ones that had died -- had followed her here, and not the other way around. That those deaths are on her head, not his. But she doesn’t, and her throat sticks, so she can’t.

And so they simply drift, in silence, among the stars.

+

If Jyn is badly wounded, Cassian is half-dead. With no small amount of effort, and at his insistence, they get him propped up in one of the corners, so he’s at least upright, but frankly she’s surprised he manages even that. His face does turn a few shades greyer, but he doesn’t complain.

Every time she looks at him, she hears the awful sound of his back connecting with the steel beam, followed by the duller sound of his body on the grate. His choppy breathing speaks to broken ribs, and then there’s his leg, crooked and useless.

Even so, he still manages to order her around.

With a voice that gives no indication of the pain he is most certainly in, he has her check the few cabinets for stowed communication devices, anything with a transmitter that they might be able to repurpose to contact the Rebel fleet. But each cabinet turns up empty. Jyn’s own comm she lost in the heat of battle, and his, he must have landed on-- it’s half-crushed and emits only a faint crackling sound.

She does manage to find a medkit, and scrounges from it bacta patches and a precious handful of stim shots. Cassian accepts the bacta but refuses the stim, citing that they might have more need of it later. She thinks his current pallor is need enough, and has half a mind to stick him in the leg while he's distracted.

Jyn does not bother to waste a stim on herself. What good would an adrenaline shot do when there is quite literally nothing to do in this pod but sit and wait?

_It could help the pain,_ whispers a small voice in the back of her head. She ignores it. Her needs are secondary and on the whole less severe. Her knee, while swollen and painful, is merely wrenched. She has survived worse.

Regardless, it’s clear it’s going to take a lot more than the scant supplies of an individual escape pod if they’re going to be adrift for any significant length of time. And they almost certainly are.

+

Applying fresh rounds of bacta as often as necessary proves more challenging than expected. Not because of the injuries themselves, though they are deeper than she had expected, but because Cassian is infuriatingly stubborn.

He’s barely able to move on his own, yet insists he is capable of applying his own patches and does not require help.

Jyn lets him do so the first few times, lets him struggle on his own in the hopes that he will realize the futility of it and allow her to aid him. He doesn’t, though, and eventually she grows impatient watching him take twice as long to remove his shirt and apply a patch as it would for her to do it for him.

The next time he asks her to pass him the medical kit, she refuses.

He shoots her a look. “Jyn.”

She shifts to sit beside him, holding the patches he wants. He shifts like he wants to reach for them, or for her, but he’s far too weak, and she blocks him easily.

“Sit back,” she orders, though he’s already pretty much entirely supported by the metal wall. “Raise your arms.”

He gives her a look. She gives him a look right back. “Why?” he asks.

Jyn resists the urge to roll her eyes. He knows perfectly well why.

“So you don’t die of infection,” she says, shortly. “Raise them.”

He does nothing for a moment, and she huffs, getting ready to fight him on it. But, then, slowly, he lifts his arms, lets her pull the shirt over his head. He doesn’t look at her.

Fine, she thinks. He can be as irritated as he likes, if her efforts keep him from dying. A little voice in the back of her mind whispers: He’s going to die anyway. She ignores it.

When she gets the shirt off, however, she can see why he might have wanted to keep it from her. Somehow, it is worse than she had thought: His entire left side is a discolored, blooming with red-purple bruises, and on his right lower abdomen the blaster wound sits, red and inflamed. She presses her lips together into a thin line.

He smells, as she does, like battle-- blood and sand, sweat and dirt, all mixed together. It’s not necessarily a pleasant smell, but it is oddly comforting.

She starts with the disinfectant wipes. Right now, keeping his blaster wound uninfected is her top priority; though the bruises along his side look bad, the skin is unbroken. He winces when she cleans the small hole, but doesn’t otherwise complain. She spares another precious wipe for his face, runs it slowly along his forehead, the hollows of his cheeks, his chin. Wipes away the grime as best she can. 

Next comes the bacta. His face doesn’t need it, but she smears it thick on his side. She tries to be as gently as she can; when her fingers touch his side, his eyes flicker. By the time she’s finished, her irritation has faded, and it’s just him in front of her, weary and wounded.

She sits back on her heels. She hadn’t noticed before, but every time he breathes it makes a little whistling sound, air rushing over something broken. It makes a patch in her own chest ache. He needs a medic, she thinks, not for the first time. 

Cassian clears his throat, bringing her back to herself. Neither of them say anything for a moment. Then, “Thank you,” he says, eyes still half-shut.

She sits back on her heels, gives a quick nod. “You’re welcome,” she says, looking anywhere but his face.

+

No one is coming for them. Jyn comes to this conclusion early, had come to it almost as soon as the instinctive adrenaline of realizing they had survived had dissipated. 

Their problems are many. For one, the Rebel Alliance doesn’t even know they’re alive, much less where they are. Where they hang, suspended, in space. In fact, by now they’ve probably been reduced to names on a list, a list of the dead that few will read and even fewer will comprehend the magnitude of. 

Jyn would have been satisfied with that, once. She had known it was a distinct possibility-- the only possibility -- before she had even left Yavin 4, in an impounded Imperial shuttle, no less. But it feels cruel to have survived Scarif only to perish with it in view.

From up here, the planet appears so peaceful, even as it smolders. So perfectly blue and green, forests and sea, with bright white clouds dotting its atmosphere. Before all this, before the Galactic Empire, before even life-forms, maybe, it had been an island paradise. 

But no more. From whatever tranquil place it had been before, Scarif had been changed, warped to fit the Imperial vision had been thrust upon it. This is something she and the planet have in common, she supposes.

It had adapted, and she had, too. Now, she must adapt once more, accepting the odds of her dire straight without losing the will to maintain herself and Cassian, to keep them alive-- even though alive for _what_ she’s not entirely sure.

+

“I wonder what it’s like,” Jyn says. “Death, I mean.”

She’s sitting by the window, looking out at the floating debris; the words come out before she can stop them, more pensive than she had meant them to be. 

It’s only that, for someone who has had so many close calls, who has run up against death so many times, it’s strange to still not have any idea what to expect afterward. 

If Cassian is surprised by her words, he doesn’t let on. 

He also doesn’t reply right away. He’s been taking longer to respond recently; she knows it must be exhausting every last bit of energy he has just to talk. But, selfishly, she thinks, if these are to be her last hours, she doesn’t want to spend them in silence. 

Eventually, he says, “Suffocation is supposed to be one of the gentler deaths. You don’t realize you’re not getting air-- you just fall asleep.”

“You don’t think we’ll starve?” she asks, morbidly curious.

A gentle death is a foreign notion to her. She’d always figured hers would be a quick death, she’d planned to go down fighting. Not quickly, necessarily, but violently, brightly, like a dying star. Falling asleep seems like more than she could have hoped for.

He shakes his head, eyes still shut. “We’ll most likely run out of air long before we run out of food.”

She nods. Then, squinting at the floor because she can’t seem to work up the nerve to look at him directly, “And, then--” She pauses. “What about after?”

He is quiet again, for so long she worries he has fallen asleep. He has been sleeping quite a lot recently.

“I hope it’s quiet,” Cassian says.

Despite herself, she snorts. “Un-kriffing-likely.” Then, “Sorry.” It isn’t that she doesn’t hope the same, rather that it just seems like much too much to wish for, at this point. She has always dealt best with disappointment by keeping her expectations low to begin with.

“Such an optimist,” he says. He turns his head, gives her a half-smile so she knows he’s not offended. “What about you?”

“Honestly,” she says, worrying her lip between her teeth, “I don’t know.”

She knows what her mother had believed, of course-- that it would be eternal light, complete oneness with the Force and with everyone else who had ever died. Her father, ever the pragmatist, had said it might be nothing at all, just a dim dark silence, before Lyra had hushed him. _Don’t frighten her, Galen,_ she had said, but Jyn hadn’t been frightened. She had thought the idea seemed quite peaceful. It would be like going to sleep, but without waking up. Like Cassian had said.

But then, what about ghosts? She has heard whispers of Force ghosts, souls that have lingered, to remain with their loved ones or to attend to unfinished business. Surely, she thinks, if that is the requirement to become a Force ghost, she will most certainly become one in death.

“My mother believed it would be peaceful,” she says, dropping her chin onto her knees. “That’s the version I like best, I think.” _Even if it doesn’t turn out to be true,_ she thinks.

He hums in agreement. “Peaceful sound good.”

There’s a long moment of silence. And then Jyn clears her throat, struggles to her feet. She crosses the tiny space, starts to rummage uselessly through empty cabinets so he won’t see how her eyes burn.

+

Without a working chrono, it is impossible to mark the passage of time. Jyn is unfamiliar with the orbit of Scarif’s moons, and, though she tallies them on the wall as they pass with a dirty fingernail, she doesn’t know what they mean. Neither does Cassian.

Thus, their only indication of passing time is the growing hunger gnawing at their stomachs, the dry thirst that burns their throats. Each day, it seems, they try to stretch their meager supply of rations further, but they will only go so far. There is even less water.

She makes a mental note to have words with those in charge of stocking the life pods, should she make it out alive. 

But that is looking less and less likely with every passing hour.

+

Jyn is woken from her doze by a rustling at her side.

At first, she assumes it's simply Cassian turning on his side-- an arduous undertaking even in his stronger hours. That doesn't worry her. But then she hears him grunt, as if in pain, and her eyes fly open.

He’s struggling for something in his pocket, face distorted with the effort.

“Hey,” she says, reaching for him. 

He tries to swat her hand away, but it is as ineffective as a thrithfly bumping against the back of her hand. Still, she jerks back, confused; it knocks whatever he was trying to get at onto the floor, and it skitters to a stop by her thigh, out of his reach. 

She picks it up. It rests in the center of her palm, and she squints at it-- a small, oval object. Like a bead, maybe, or a pill.

“What’s this?” she asks. It looks oddly familiar, though she can't imagine why. Pill medications of any sort are costly, and she's never had the credits to spare. She’s always been a _rub some dirt in it_ kind of girl.

Without answering, he closes his eyes. It doesn't make sense, the sadness on his face. 

It occurs to her that it could be he has access to medication he simply hadn’t wanted to share, but she dismisses the thought as soon as it comes into her mind. That wouldn’t be like him, but, more than that, it wouldn’t make sense, especially after he had refused the stims.

She doesn't understand.

She doesn’t understand, until she does. As she stares at it, and then him, the word comes to her as gently as a whisper. _Lullaby._

“Cassian, what is this?” she asks, dry throat cracking.

She can't take her eyes off it, this tiny thing in the center of her palm, with its power over life and death. The one she knows Captain Cassian Andor carries -- that all official Rebels carry -- according to regulation, in case of capture.

“Jyn,” he mutters, finally, eyes still shut. It almost sounds like a plea. “These pods weren’t made to last long. They have a fixed supply of oxygen.” He pauses, gathering breath, or perhaps just strength. When he speaks again, he sounds as tired as she’s ever heard him. “We don’t know how long it’s going to take them to come for us.”

Jyn’s chest tightens, the sudden lack of air making her head swim. Cassian doesn’t elaborate further, doesn’t need to. She knows what he’s saying: He’s dying anyway, so why not double her chances?

Sudden anger, white-hot, flares in her chest.

She grabs his shoulder, shakes him until he opens his eyes. “Look at me,” she says, ignoring how he grimaces, ignoring the physical toll it takes on her in her own weakened state. She forces his chin up so that he has to look her in the eye. “We’re not doing this,” she says. “We’re not doing any of this stupid self-sacrifice nonsense, all right? It’s you and me together, or not at all, understand?”

Her breath comes in short little pants, her heart beats so ferociously she’s sure he must be able to hear it. In that moment, she hates him for it. He must know, because he looks ashamed, tries to say her name. 

“So, try anything like that again,” she says, teeth gritted, their faces very close, “and, Force help me, I don’t care if you’re half-dead, I’ll kill you myself.” 

She lets go of him then without warning, and his shoulders thud dully on the hard floor. Good, she thinks. He deserves it for trying to leave her without so much as a goodbye.

But when she looks at him, he’s watching her with an expression so resigned, so unreservedly melancholy, it makes her rock back on her heels, shocking her out of her anger for a moment. But only a moment; he shuts his eyes again, and the expression disappears, leaving her with his blank spy’s face.

Her stomach twists, and she’s struck with the familiar need to run, to get as far away as possible. In the pod, she settles for the opposite corner, crawls there on unsteady legs.

Cassian looks like he wants to say something, keeps opening and closing his mouth. He says her name, but she purposefully turns her head away each time, refusing to indulge either his guilt or his justification.

She fixes her eyes on the view-hole and tries to stop her hands from shaking. When she opens her clenched fists, she realizes she’s crushed the lullaby pill into dust.

+

By the time she’s exhausted the last reserves of her anger, and made her way around to guilt, Cassian has slipped into unconsciousness.

This she had discovered when she had shifted back to sit at his side once again. Too tired for anything more than a dull hurt, she had found him still breathing but unresponsive.

She’s sure it must be punishment, though from whom or what she is unsure. Her mother had believed so strongly that the Force moved in everything, sometimes as gentle as a guiding breeze, other times with the fury of a deep river current. She had been sure that fate was neither capricious nor random, but Jyn fails to see how the Force had helped her mother on the plains of Lah’mu, her heart pierced by a blaster bolt. And, if it exists, how does it help Jyn now?

Still, she accepts her penance, whatever its origin. Mostly because there is simply nothing else to do. She’s already given Cassian two stim shots in the span of twelve hours, but all they have done is slightly raise his heart rate and cause him to toss restlessly, as if in a dream. She knows that another shot could send him into cardiac arrest.

Awfully, a little part of her envies him his rest, however unquiet. It’s not long after that they run out of rations completely, and Jyn feels as though her stomach is beginning to consume itself. Her dry mouth begs for water. Her body begs for relief; her spirit, for peace.

+

She can tell she is nearing the end when her vision starts to go. Her eyes are sticky and dry, just as they had been when she had first opened them to find herself in the pod, her leg so stiff and swollen she couldn’t move if she wanted to. 

Cassian’s breathing is shallower than before, increasingly unsteady. Every pause between heartbeats she’s sure is his last, but somehow he always manages to draw another breath from his broken chest, his body refusing to quit. He, like she, is a fighter.

What a pair they make, she thinks. Two bright fires that have finally burnt themselves out. Well, that’s all right. It was bound to happen eventually.

With the last remnants of her strength, she pulls his head into her lap and waits.

+

Eventually, all her thoughts begin to run together, into one desperate blur. She doesn’t see her life pass before her eyes, but she does see faces, faces of the ones she has loved and lost. Her mother is among them, smiling down at her as they fix dinner in their tiny kitchen on Coruscant, tugging gently on one of her braids, as is her father, young and strong, carrying her back to bed. She sees Saw, her adoptive father, peering down at her from the entrance to her secret cave, beckoning her to him, then Bodhi, Chirrut, and Baze, all looking at her with misplaced pride and affection. 

Finally, Cassian, his lips forming the words, _Welcome home._

And, for a moment, she thinks she is.

+

When the collision comes, Jyn is so weak it barely registers. She feels the metal walls tremble and heave around her, but doesn’t react. Her hazy mind processes it like yet another fever dream-- her brain’s last gasp before she slides into darkness forever.

There’s the clicking sound of a docking mechanism, the final settling of the connection between the two crafts, one she would know in an instant, if she were aware. But she isn’t, she can hardly see, so she simply wishes for the shaking to stop, so she can go back to sleep.

And then there are others clambering aboard their tiny craft, men with voices so familiar and yet so strange.

“Jyn. Hey, look at me,” one of them says. She feels more than sees them kneel at her side. All her bleary eyes manage are a deep brown blob of a head, two black dots for eyes, and scraggly black hair falling down around the face. So familiar.

“Hey,” she tries to say, but she can no longer make her mouth move the way she wants it to.

At this, the man says something to his companions, which she doesn’t quite catch.

The last thing she sees before her eyes slide shut once more is Bodhi’s thin face, pinched with worry, and her body being pulled from Cassian’s side.

+

Jyn wakes, once again, with a pounding head.

The throbbing is exacerbated by the harsh overhead lights, and the sharp smell of antiseptic immediately works its way into the back of her throat, nauseating her. Vaguely, she feels resentful that this seems to be becoming a pattern.

It takes a frustrating amount of time for her eyes to focus, but once they do, she is met by the sight of three faces she feared she’d never see again.

Chirrut and Bodhi both doze at her bedside, Chirrut in an uncomfortable plastic chair, and Bodhi on the floor, head tipped into the side of her bed, looking like he’d simply collapsed there from sheer exhaustion. Baze sits with them as well, tucked further in the corner, his back to the wall, his deep-set black eyes calm and alert.

He is the first one to notice she is awake. They lock eyes, and she could swear the corners of his mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile. He gives her a few moments to adjust before clearing his throat so loudly it startles both Chirrut and Bodhi into wakefulness, making Jyn herself jump.

Bodhi scrambles to his feet, nearly falling over again in his haste.

“Jyn,” he says, breathless, taking her hand. “You’re alive! Or, what I mean is, you’re _awake,_ we’ve all been so worried--”

It continues like this for a few minutes, a stream of nervous chatter that she finds both endearing and acutely comforting.

Past Bodhi’s side, she shoots Chirrut a look. He hasn’t been able to get a word in edgewise, and simply grins at her, sightless eyes wide and knowing. She turns her eyes back to Baze, who nods at her, as if to say, _Well done._

Then, Bodhi says something that draws her attention. “When we got back to Yavin IV, and we didn’t see you, we thought you were dead. But then we heard your call,” he says. “Only it took us a while to pinpoint your exact location, and to get a crew together, and by the time we found you, you were both in such bad shape, we didn’t know--”

“Wait, wait,” Jyn interrupts, frowning. She shakes her head. “Our call? We didn’t call. We had no way to.” _We were utterly alone,_ she thinks.

Bodhi’s eyebrows draw together. “Cassian’s transmitter was sending out a steady signal for days,” he says, confused. “We thought it was intentional?”

At this, Jyn closes her eyes briefly, leaning back against the thin pillows. A helpless laugh bubbles up in her chest-- she can still hear the faint crackling of the comm, which she had taken to mean it was irreparably broken. But in reality, it had been the only thing that had saved them. She’s especially glad now she hadn’t crushed it entirely in frustration, a thought she had entertained at the time.

Eventually, the thought of Cassian’s transmitter brings her around to the man himself. He, of course, is not here. She understands that much-- he had been wounded even more grievously than she, had experienced the effects of starvation to a greater degree because of his injured state.

But none of her friends have mentioned him at all or said a word as to his condition-- if he had survived at all.

Sudden panic grips her. She reaches out, grabbing onto Bodhi’s forearm with all her strength, digging her nails in. Even that small movement exhausts her, though, and it doesn’t have the desired result-- he just looks at her with something close to pity, mixed with maybe a flicker of humor.

But, before she can get the words out, the terrible question,

“Your captain lives,” Chirrut says, from his seat beside her, as though reading her mind.

She looks to Bodhi for confirmation, then Baze, who nods.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Bodhi says. He smacks himself in the forehead, looking stricken. “He’s alive. Worse off than you, though,” he adds. “He’s still technically in critical,” he says, all in a rush, “but the med droids expect him to recover.”

She can’t speak, hardly feels it as they help resettle her on the thin pillows. She shuts her eyes, hard, turning her face to the side in a vain attempt to keep them from seeing the sheer relief there. 

One of the various monitors begins to beep out the unsteady rhythm of her heart, and soon enough a humanoid medic bustles in to check on her.

“What have I told you about disturbing the patients?” she asks Bodhi and Chirrut, with a good-natured sigh. She makes a shooing motion with her hands. “Visiting hours resume at 0600 tomorrow.”

Bodhi looks reluctant.

“It’s okay, Bodhi,” Jyn says, trying for a smile. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“If you’re sure,” he says, slowly.

“She’s sure,” the medic says, drawing an eye roll from Jyn. It seems to put Bodhi at better ease, and he allows himself to be drawn along from the room on Chirrut’s arm.

Baze, unsurprisingly, is the last to leave. When the others are in the hall, he lingers at her beside, looking as though he is struggling to find the words to express exactly what it is he wants to say.

When he leans in, his words are low and for Jyn alone. “I am glad you are alive,” he says. “Little sister.”

+

They wait until she is stronger to tell her of Alderaan. When she hears of its destruction, she cries like she had for her father; she thinks of Leia, whom she hasn’t seen in years but who had once been her confidante, in the long hours during which Saw and Bail would argue back and forth only to end up where they had started. She had even envied the other girl, once, jealous of her complete and loving family, but now she thinks she wouldn’t trade places for the world.

Even the knowledge that a young man named Skywalker had blown the Death Star to pieces doesn’t fully heal that wound. Too many good people have been lost for it to feel like a victory.

But maybe, just maybe, it could be a start.

+

Days pass before she is given medical clearance to visit Cassian.

Normally, she would have said _kriff clearance_ and gone to see him directly, but there is currently one major problems with this approach, and that is: after several aborted escape attempts, she has been assigned her own personal security escort, whose main purpose is to prevent her from leaving said bed. 

In the words of one medic, “The Rebel Alliance didn’t expend time and effort to rescue you and Captain Andor only to have you burst your heart in our facility.”

Her chaperone is tall man by the name of Keye Tobian, with dark brown skin and resolute brown eyes. He doesn’t talk much, and Jyn thinks she might like him in any other circumstance. But, right now, he’s an unnecessary obstacle. So, after failing to convince him she is quite capable of walking herself down the hall to Cassian’s room, she simply refuses to engage.

Still, the ultimate result is that, though reluctantly and not necessarily by choice, Jyn follows her orders.

Until finally, she receives word that she has been given official medical clearance to visit Cassian. 

For nearly a week now, she has desired this opportunity in her heart above all others. But, now that she’s been given exactly what she wants, it’s the strangest thing-- she hesitates.

Still no word has been said to her on his condition, but suddenly the way the medics whisper about him makes her afraid.

She pretends to sleep for a few hours so no one will bother her about it, chalks it up to working up the energy it’ll take to get out of bed, make her way down the dingy halls until she finds his room. But, in truth, it’s not energy she lacks -- her heart feels like it might beat out of her chest, sending adrenaline coursing through her body -- but _nerve_.

Will he even want to see her? Their last conscious interchange hadn’t been particularly pleasant. And, come to think of it, she’s not entirely sure she’s forgiven him for trying to leave her, no matter how pure his intentions.

In the end, it’s Keye who persuades her to go. _Persuades_ meaning _calling her on her bluff_.

“I know you’re not asleep,” he says, as they creep into hour four of her pretense. When she doesn’t reply right away, “Jyn.”

“First of all, it’s creepy that you know that,” she grumbles under her breath, more to herself than to him. But she pulls the covers from over her head, sits up against the rough headboard. She imagines she looks quite sullen, but can’t be bothered to care.

He ignores her dig. All he gives is a cryptic, “You won’t know unless you see for yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jyn asks, still cranky at having been called out on her cowardice.

Keye doesn’t answer, just inclines his head in the direction of the hall.

She makes a show out of climbing out of bed, which takes more effort than usual as her leg muscles are still weak from malnutrition and atrophy. Gathering up her various tubes and wires, she doesn’t look at him when she passes by, but still manages to get the impression that he is rolling his eyes at her.

After so long in one room, with only a handful of visitors, it is unnerving to be thrust back in the thick of things. Everything seems much too loud-- medics rushing by, calling codes to one another, pushing wheelchairs and cots. Jyn suspects Keye follows her at a distance, but refuses to give him the satisfaction of looking back.

But, by the time she reaches the correct room, with his rank and name on the door, all spitefulness has dissipated, and she is left with only a strange knot in her stomach.

She stands in the hall for a long moment, afraid at what she might find.

“I know you’re there, Jyn,” comes a voice from the room. “Quit loitering and come in.”

At his voice, tired and slow though it is, her heart thuds wildly.

She crosses the threshold, approaches him gingerly, still dragging the ungainly rolling cart with its tubes and wires feeding into her arms and chest. Its wheels screech against the uneven floor, making her wince.

She stops only an arm’s length away from him, but after they had passed so much time in such an enclosed space, it feels like a chasm.

He looks bad, but not as bad as she’d last seen him. His cheeks are still hollow, eyes still rimmed with bruisy purple, but at least he no longer looks like a corpse. He’s regained some of his color, and someone has trimmed his beard; it makes him look younger, more vulnerable.

“You look like shit,” she says, conversationally, plopping down in the chair beside his bed. She strives for nonchalance, but, in truth, her legs are shaking so hard she’s not sure they won’t collapse out from under her.

“Appreciate it,” he says, dryly. Then, “You look well.”

Jyn shrugs one shoulder. She’s been thinking for days about all the things she’d wanted to say upon seeing him again-- _How are you, I can’t believe we’re alive, Do you know that Alderaan is gone, I’m sorry,_ but upon seeing his face all her words have fled. All she can do is search his expression for resentment, maybe anger-- after all, if it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t even be in this bed. He’d be out there in the stars, where he belongs, K-2 by his side.

They make awkward small talk for a while, both of them dancing around the inevitable. 

The food here? Awful. Worse than bloody rations.

You seen the others yet? Yeah. Bodhi’s driving the medical staff up the wall. Weak smiles all around.

Eventually they run out of safe topics. Their voices drop off, and they go quiet-- but it’s not their usual, comfortable silence. Jyn sits looking at her hands in her lap, feeling awkward, feeling useless, feeling like nothing that must be said can even be put into words. Then,

“I’m sorry,” Cassian says.

Jyn’s head darts up.

“Sorry for what?” she asks, and it’s cruel, she knows it is, but she needs to hear him say it. She needs to know he won’t try to leave her again, that he _understands_ she’d rather die with him than live knowing he gave his life for hers. That would be a fate worse than death, and she has no interest in it.

He clears his throat. “You know for what,” he says, softly, unable to look her in the eye. “Are you really going to make me say it?”

Like so many of their conversations, little needs to be said out loud.

At the last moment she takes pity on him. His hand is inches from hers, and she reaches out, taps his palm so he knows. 

“No,” she says. Working up the next few words feels like the hardest thing she’s ever done, but she gets them out. “I’m sorry I was angry,” she says, staring hard at a spot just beyond his shoulder. “Just don’t do it again.”

“I won’t,” he promises. She doesn’t quite believe him, but for now that’s all right. Perhaps the best she can do is have his back.

Belatedly she realizes that her hand still rests on his. She moves to pull away, but he catches her wrist. Something passes between them.

“We did it, you know,” he says, quietly. “The Death Star has been destroyed, thanks to you.”

Jyn shakes her head, pressing her lips together. She can’t speak, can’t look at him, knowing the number of his men, his _friends_ , that she had led to their deaths. She doesn’t deserve his thanks.

But it’s as if he knows, because the next thing he says is, “We all made our choices, Jyn. You didn’t force anyone. We followed you because we believed in you.”

She just looks at him. And he looks at her, and then her arms are around his neck, face buried in his shoulder. She’s trying to be careful of his wounds but it is still a messy and awkward embrace, her rolling cart scraping the floor and her tubes tangling around her arms.

And it’s worth the discomfort, every second. Because his own hand comes up to rest on the back of her head, winding into her hair; he sighs against her cheek. Then there’s his smell, blaster oil and dirt and something sharper, strange and familiar all at once.

She knows what it is: It’s home.

+

“You should rest,” she says, when she pulls back. Her voice comes out little thick, but he is good enough not to comment on the redness around her eyes.

“So should you,” is all he says. He’s still holding onto her, his thumb warm on the underside of her wrist.

She smiles, feeling a little foolish, but also much better. Discreetly, she turns to swipe at her eyes with her free hand. Then, “Well, scoot over, then,” she says. 

He looks like he wants to smile. Obediently, he shifts to the side.

Jyn settles in beside him, feeling more at ease than she has in a very long time-- despite the fact that she is very nearly about to fall off the edge of this cot, which was clearly made for one person. But that doesn’t matter, because she knows if she were to slip, Cassian would reach for her, just as she would for him. And that’s all that she could ever ask for, really.

When she falls asleep with his words in her head, it’s far better than any dying vision.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed this. as always, commentary and constructive criticism are very much appreciated, if you can spare the time. ♥
> 
> also lmao i hate myself this was supposed to be a short fic, but now it’s like the second-longest ive written for this ship. #nailedit


End file.
